My Brother's Keeper
by Wolf Maid
Summary: M for lang. and nongraph rape. VERY dark, much darker than what I usually write. Alt ending for Devils Trap. John doesn’t get free from the demon...
1. I

Rated: M for language and implied rape. VERY dark, much darker than what I usually write. But also one of my better written pieces. Alternate ending for DT. Basically, John doesn't get free from the demon. And this is what happens.

Should be three chapters.

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.

* * *

"Dad—"

"Does that hurt, Dean? Just say it. Say it hurts. Say it."

"Dad, stop him, please—"

"Say it hurts, Dean—" John's face twists into a smirk.

"Fuck—you," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth.

"Now that's the Dean we know and love. Come on, Dean baby, say it hurts."

"My daddy told me not to tell lies," Dean grins viciously, and Sam feels a mixture of relief that his brother is still hanging in and renewed fear. _Fucking smart mouth_… The demon blinks, and Dean almost gasps as the pain momentarily ceases.

"Right, I forgot—you like it rough." Dean pales slightly, but manages a half-ass smile.

"Did your daughter tell you that?" John's face tightens for a second, and then he continues on like nothing happened.

"He knew, you know," the demon lifts Dean's head up, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Knew what?"

"Knew how you got that money. He saw it all that first night; saw how you couldn't fight them—"

"Like your son?"

"John helps those who help themselves—"

"You _need_ help—"

"It felt good, didn't it—"

"Not as good as your dau—"

"You beat 'em at pool, and then they decided to take their loss outta your skin—"

"You just love the sound of your—"

"They let you keep the money, though, and that ran through fast—"

"Like your mother—"

"John saw you the first time, and he didn't stop them, didn't stop you later—"

"Sammy needed it!" Dean grinds out, voice strained. Sam's eyes darken as he stares in disbelief, and the demon laughs in delight.

"And you wonder why he's the favorite."

"At least he's alive," Dean growls half-defiantly. The demon chuckles at that, as well.

"Yes, poor unappreciated Dean who'd do anything for his family—"

"Don't mock him!" Sam yells, at last finding his voice.

"Why would I mock a whore with no life beyond a family that doesn't need him?" John's face slid into a wry smile. "Oops."

"Leave him the fuck alone!" Sam snarls.

"Sammy didn't know, though, did he? That first time, when Sammy was sick—cursed—and that witch said she'd take it off—for a price—and John's arm was broken—"

"Sammy needed it," Dean whispers, blood still running down his shirt.

"'Go make the money, Dean,'" the demon mocks John. "'Be a fucking man, Dean, Sammy needs it—'"

"Fuck off!" Dean yells, eyes haunted. The demon grins at Dean's pale face, and then slides John's hand down to grab the front of Dean's pants.

"How rough you want it, son?" Dean's skin turns whiter, if possible, a sharp contrast to the slow trickle of blood down his lips.

"Oh fuck, no," he whispers. "Dad, don't!"

"You or Sammy, son, and you know Sammy's always been my favorite—"

"Fuck no!" Dean yells.

"Dean, don't!" Sam yells simultaneously, suddenly realizing what the demon is trying to do.

"Got something to say, Sammy? You know, you're such a _pretty_ boy…" Dean's fists clench with strength that should already have been drained from the beating he'd been taking.

"Yo!" he yells, grabbing the demon's attention. Behind John, Sam's head jerks up, eyes screaming no. "Get the _fuck_ away from my baby brother!" The demon, who'd been clutching Sam's chin, grins at him and then turns to stalk back to Dean.

"Dean, he's playing y—" Sam begins, but with a flick of John's wrist Sam's mouth is forced shut.

"Y'understand, you're gonna have to cooperate with me." Dean grunts. "I expect an answer, son."

"Yes," Dean snarls.

"Yes, dad," the demon corrects. Dean manages a bitter half-smile.

"Yes, dad."

"Better." The demon gestures again, and Dean's hands snap together in front of him as if they were handcuffed, and then he slumps back against the wall, almost falling, as the demon removes the force.

"Shit," Dean breathes, face tightening against the pain. The demon backhands him, snapping his face to the side and causing him to sag another foot.

"I didn't raise you to speak like that! Get on your knees, boy."

"You didn't _raise_ me at all, _Dad,_" Dean snarls, before letting himself fall to his knees. The demon grabs his chin.

"You're gonna pay for every smart-ass comment out of that mouth, son." Dean looks down, almost cowering, before throwing all his weight into John's legs, knocking him over. A painful roll, and he reaches up to grab the gun—and is thrown back into the wall, a rib cracking in the process, and the wind knocked from his lungs.

"That's m'boy," the demon grins ruefully, watching with satisfaction defeat slowly cross Dean's face.

"Let him go," he coughs out.

"Sammy?"

"And John. Let them go."

"John stays."

"Let Sam go, then."

"So he can come after me?"

"Damnit, don't' make him watch this!" Dean yells. The demon shakes John's head softly.

"You just can't fucking help yourself, can you? You always have to be everybody's fucking hero."

"Fuck," Dean whispers. "Please."

"I like that," the demon grins, John's hands reaching up to caress Dean's chin. "Let's hear that pretty mouth say that again."

"Dad, please let him go." The demon smiles ironically, before lifting up John's head and burrowing deep into Dean's chest once again. Unprepared, Dean lets out a strangled cry.

"Beg me for your life, Dean."

"Please..."

"Ask your dad to stop…"

"Fuck! Dad, please stop…"

"Ask me to take Sammy instead." Sam closes his eyes in defeat. Dean lifts his own to meet John's.

"Go to hell, you son of a—" he bit off the rest as the pain in his chest increases. Beyond all seeming probability, he forces his eyes open once more and spits in John's face. "…_Fucking_ son of a bitch," he corrects with a blood-thirsty smile. The demon shakes his head softly in something akin to amazement.

"You little bastard," he breathes. "You little fucker."


	2. II

Disclaimer: See Ch.I

This is the chapter w/ the rape…it's mostly implied...one moe chapter.

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_"Ask me to take Sammy instead." Sam closes his eyes in defeat. Dean lifts his own to meet John's._

_"Go to hell, you son of a—" he bit off the rest as the pain in his chest increases. Beyond all seeming probability, he forces his eyes open once more and spits in John's face. "…Fucking son of a bitch," he corrects with a blood-thirsty smile. The demon shakes his head softly in something akin to amazement. _

_"You little bastard," he breathes. "You little fucker."_

"I would've thought you were expecting that," Dean growls, voice growing fiercer as he wills himself to ignore the pain. "Or wait, you thought I was like your daughter?" The demon starts to increase the pain, and then pauses contemplatively. With a smile he stops the pain and then turns his back on Dean and starts back to Sam, lowering his head as if to do a repeat of what he'd done to Dean. "No! I didn't—fuck—I didn't mean it!"

"Not so cocky now, are ya'?"

"Please, leave him alone!" The demon probes Sam's skin and Sam's eyes widen at the touch.

"How old were you, that first time?" he asks Dean conversationally.

"14," Dean answers softly. And the demon smiles.

"Tell me you want me to fuck you, son." One look at Sam's face forces his hand.

"I want you to fuck me." And instantly knowing what to say. "Please, dad, fuck me. I…need it. I want it." The demon turns away from Sam almost unwillingly, in shock and renewed interest. Intrigued.

"You do that quite well, son. You've done it to many men?"

"They…didn't mean anything. I just want you. Please let me…please let me please you. Fuck me, dad, please." Pain hidden in eyes full of lust, in a voice full of promised pleasure. And Sam feels his heart break.

"How many, Dean?" the demon repeats, forcing himself to ignore the awe he can't help but feel for the boys' strength. Dean falters, but only slightly.

"Seven?" He pauses, closing his eyes. "Nine?"

"Eleven men," the demon corrects, a bite in his voice. "One more try, son. How many times?"

"I don't…I don't know. I don't remember, I swear," Dean whispers. "Fuck, don't hurt him, I don't remember."

"Twenty-seven times, boy. Twenty-seven times." With the whisper of leather on jeans he pulls John's belt from his pants. "Been quite a bad boy, haven't you, son?" Eyes fixed to the swinging brown leather.

"Yes, dad."

"You should be punished, shouldn't you?" Waiting for the cry of _That was fucking punishment enough!_

"Yes, dad." Voice so very soft. With a half-hidden frown the demon gestures to the floor at his feet.

"Come here," he orders, releasing Dan from his invisible prison. And with Sam's name on his lips, Dean forces his tired legs to stumble forward, kneeling on the hard wood. Sam closes his eyes on 17, but forces himself to watch again at 20, bearing witness for his brother's sake. The whip falls to the ground at 27, followed immediately by Dean's body, his beloved jacket ripped to shreds, but most likely responsible for the air still being sucked unsteadily into his lungs and the erratic heartbeat thrumming in his torn chest. The demon lifts him, floating, in the air in front of him, forcing himself not to look fondly on the boy for his silence, forcing himself to picture his daughters' face and forget the information she tried to give in exchange for her life.

"Ask me," he orders Dean instead, "To take Sammy instead of you." Dean, eyes unfocused, breath coming in ragged gasps and blood still running from his ravaged chest, somehow finds the strength to flash his trademark grin.

"Fuck you." The demon feels himself literally jerk back in shock before his eyes flash in rage.

"Since you insist!" he growls, flinging Dean into the table in the center of the room. And damned if Dean doesn't reach for the gun. The demon forces him to his knees, sliding the gun farther from his reach. "Open up," he snarls, "Or your little—" Dean's mouth opens and the demon stops in sudden confusion at the fact that _he_ hadn't forced it open…"Oh…this is very fucking bad…" he whispers almost inaudibly. With inborn strength he pulls himself together, admitting with a dark smile that he is getting hard at the very thought of Dean's willingness and seemingly unbreakable spirit. He likes to break things. "What are you waiting for? And take your shirt off." Dean freezes—with a look of desperation he looked down to his shirt and then back up to John.

"I don't think I can…"

"You'll suck me off, but you won't—"

"My back," Dean admits softly. "And my chest…" Realizing once more the damage that has been done to the boy, the demon swears before sliding the ruined jacket off Dean's shoulders and easily tearing through the thin material of the t-shirt. If Sam could speak, he cuss. Loudly. Even the demon is taken aback at the blood, and realizes in sudden shock how close the boy was to dying. He pushes an invisible barrier over the wound to stop the blood, before making sure the boy will live for a few more hours. Fuck the boy, sure, but he isn't interested in necrophilia. He'll live.

"What are you waiting for, son?" he repeats, as soon as he finishes the check.

"Christmas," Dean spits, before reaching up to unzip his father's jeans. He coats his father—the demon—with his saliva and blood before letting his instincts and experience take over, letting himself try to distance himself from the moment, and failing because it is his father's hand that rests heavily on his head, his father's voice that tells him to take him deeper, to swallow, to remember who's in his mouth. Tears, his father had told him, were weak. He could never be weak. He had to protect Sammy. He had to be a man, earn the money, _be a fucking _man, _Dean!_ The demon forces John's face into a smile, John's voice ordering Dean to slip out of his jeans and bend over the table.

"That's my boy, Dean." _Be a fucking man, Dean! Sammy needs you!_ Dean is an expert in pain, but as his father grabs him and forces himself deeper, as he feels his skin burn with the contact, feels the edge of the table dig deeper with each thrust, he finds himself wishing he didn't have to _always_ be a man, because he'd really like to cry and sure as hell would like to scream, but Sammy is there and his daddy is there, and they need him so he has to be a fucking _man_.

Sam has no compunctions, and hot tears slide easily down his cheeks, their touch one more reminder of Dean's loyalty—the tight embrace as he ran towards the flames that engulfed Jess, holding him tightly as he woke in the night, tears fresh as he called Jess' name, always there, always the protector, the one person he could trust. And the demon pulls away from Dean at the same instant Sam throws himself from the wall, the gun sliding easily from the floor to his hand.

"Kill me and you'll kill daddy," the demon snarls in warning, and Sam smiles darkly.

"I know," he whispers bitterly, and fires the gun. The demon feels agony spread through his—John's—his—John's leg, and fights to pull away, but somehow John keeps hold of him. Fucking psychopathic avenger—

"Shoot me!" John yells, desperation tingeing his voice. "He's still inside me! Shoot me and we can end all this!" Frantically the demon fights to get away, as Sam's hand tremble around the gun, and the demon curses himself for his stupidity—letting Dean be a distraction, and not realizing until too late—

"No! Fuck no, Sam, don't shoot him, God no—Sam don't!" Stunned, a second distraction, saved only by Sam's glance at his dying brother, by Sam listening to his savior, his friend, and _Why the fuck would the boy say that? Fucking idiot_ the demon slips away.

Sam lowers the gun, and John sags to the ground.

"What the hell were you thinking? We could have killed him!" and no word for his son, bleeding—dying—on the wood floor, two fucking feet away, the fucking man his father always wanted, no "all right, son?" or "good job" or even "you kept Sammy safe." Sam realizes that he has always known he is John Winchester's favorite son, but this is the first time he hates it, and he wishes that just once Dean had begrudged him it. But Dean—Dean has always had to be everybody's fucking hero.

"We need to get him to the doctor," Sam says instead, speaking over his father who—as always—is worrying more over the demon than his children—damn, then Dean, because Dean is always the one who gets hurt. John glances at Dean, but can't seem to stand to look at him.

"He'll be fine—we'll get him patched up one we're out of the area." And Dean nods—_Daddy's little soldier_—and Sam wants to cry, or hit someone, and—

"He goes _now!_" Dean looks at Sam and then down at his naked, bloodied body and ducks his head slightly in sudden shame. _Sammy needed it._ Dean cannot walk—can barely move—but John doesn't want to touch him, and Dean flinches and won't look his father in the eye, and John blames the bullet in his leg for waiting inside, rather than admitting he doesn't want to have to talk to Dean. Sam helps Dean into his clothes, terrified at his brother's weakness, trying desperately to be strong. He half-carries—mostly carries—Dean out to the car, and when Dean grabs his shirt to pull him forward, Sam leans close. Dean's been hurt enough.

"I'm…." Dean starts, but pauses, suddenly hesitant. He quirks a grin. "How bad's my jacket?" Sam manages a half-smile at his brother's question. Trust Dean.

"Think you might need to get a new one."

"Fuck. Love that thing."

"Mmm. Well, it'll be a good change for you. You're a little too attached to inanimate objects. The jacket, the car—"

"Don't fuck with my car, twerp."

"Jerk."

"Bitch." They manage the half-smile they reserve especially for each other. Then Dean's collapses. "Fuck, I'm so sorry Sam, I—" and Sam curls his fist to hold back the pain.

"Damnit, Dean, don't be an ass. You risked your life to save me, I don't think I can ever—"

"Better get him," Dean interrupts hoarsely, suddenly afraid of the conversation, suddenly unable to say the word 'dad,' suddenly fighting to stay tough. Still afraid to let them down. And Sam, knowing his brother's strength, understands he's coming to the end of it, and nods.


	3. III

Disclaimer: See Ch. 1

This is the end that I wrote…kinda episode ending-ish…tell me if you want me to write a sequel…maybe something not so dark…. :)

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this!

* * *

_"Damnit, Dean, don't be an ass. You risked your life to save me, I don't think I can ever—"_

_"Better get him," Dean interrupts hoarsely, suddenly afraid of the conversation, suddenly unable to say the word 'dad,' suddenly fighting to stay tough. Still afraid to let them down. And Sam, knowing his brother's strength, understands he's coming to the end of it, and nods._

"Sure, Dean." Sam walks—stalks—back to the house, moving past his father, who is struggling to his feet, throwing the few items they'd taken out back into their bags.

"Gimme a hand, son," John orders, voice still bitter with regret for the lost chance, and Sam flinches at the word, and turns back, raising his fist to hit his father, hate and rage mingling until all he can see is Dean lying, so fucking still, while his father complains about lost chances..._Lost chances? Try lost childhood!_ But as he pictures his brothers face he remembers the pain and the one request, the gun in his hand, and he lets his fist fall, but John sees the action. "Sam?"

"I'll take you to the hospital, and I'll pay for your medical, and then I want you to give Dean one of your fucking orders—something along the lines of "I have a plan, don't look for me" and vanish into the night. Send a message you're dead, and never come near him again." John's face is a tapestry of disbelief.

"Sam?"

"You made him what he is, and that is one thing I will always love you and hate you for, because he is the strongest, most loyal, self-sacrificing bastard that ever walked this earth. But between the two of us we've destroyed him, and you don't even care." Realizing his son is in earnest—

"Sam—"

"Your son is dying, damnit! He's dying, and you could care less! I don't have time for this—come or stay, but we're leaving now." A long silence, as Sam finishes packing and John looks for humility inside himself.

"Could you—will you help me to the car?" Suddenly ashamed of what his son sees in him. Sam turns, eyes burning.

"If it wasn't for Dean you could crawl," he growls, but puts his arm around John's shoulder and helps him to the car, grabbing the bags. His hand hovers over the Colt, contemplating what to do with it.

"I'll sit in the back," John tells him, and Sam freezes, wondering what else his father could say to hurt Dean, whether his very presence is a bad idea. He looks at the gun in his hand and then nods as he answers his own question. Sometimes you've gotta do the right thing and go against your gut…

"How're you doing, son?" John asks, and Dean flinches at the word.

"Fine, Sir." And John wonders f Dean has always called him sir. He pulls a t-shirt out of a bag.

"Let me put some pressure on—" he reaches towards Dean—who flinches and then scowls in anger at himself.

"Sorry sir, I didn't mean—"

"I don't want to go," John whispers in sudden realization. "I don't want to go," he repeats louder for Sam's benefit, who throws him a look in the rearview mirror but declines to comment. Dean misunderstands.

"You need to go to the hospital—you're hurt, dad." He doesn't flinch at his words because he is worried—worried about his father's health—the father who didn't call when Dean was dying, who didn't ask how he was feeling when he was two feet away, and dimly John wonders whether men really shouldn't cry, because somewhere along the line he screwed up bad and he's pretty sure it's too late to fix any of it.

"We need to get _you_ to the hospital, Dean—I'm fine…. Does it…does it hurt?" Dean tries to hide his surprise at the question, but John sees it.

"I'll be fine," he replies, and John almost smiles at the offhand reply. Almost. When Sam is hurt you can see an echo of Sammy, and John frowns as he realizes you can't see young Dean, and then understands—with startling clarity—that there hasn't _been _a young Dean since his mother died and Sammy was thrust into his small arms.

"I've really fucked this up, haven't I?" John whispers, looking down at his oldest son.

"Yes," Sam responds immediately, but Dean, still oblivious to the subtext, shoots a look in the mirror to Sam and then looks back at John.

"This is my fault, I should've realized you were possessed and—"

"It's not," Sam and John cut him off immediately, and while he'll continue to believe his guilt he's in enough pain to let it go for now.

"We'll get another chance," he says instead, Mr. Fucking-Optimism Himself, and John manages a half-smile at the irony of the words—what he wants to hear, but what he no longer thinks he deserves, and from the front seat Sam starts to laugh bitterly, realizing that for once he and his father are thinking of Dean, and Dean is thinking of the demon. One fucking screwed up world.

"What he—what happened—"

"It's not your fault," Dean murmurs to his father, immediately forgiving, accepting. If Sam had been hurt would Dean have shot John? Has Dean always thought himself expendable?

"If it was me instead of you—" he asks Sam, and Sam nods.

"The same. If it was fucking Satan he'd probably—fuck, Dean, you've got to stop it."

"S-sorry," Dean barely manages to whisper, vaguely confused by the conversation but knowing he doesn't want Sam upset. John watches Dean slowly slip, and knows there one more thing he needs to say before Dean succumbs to unconsciousness.

"I didn't know."

"I know," Dean slurs, but this time John needs to know Dean understands.

"I swear, I never knew how you got that money, and if I did I'd never have let—"

"I know, dad." Dean manages a half-smile. "But Sammy needed it." And softer. "Sorry I wasn't the man you…" as he at last fades. And John cries as he holds his fiercely loyal, strong, beautiful, dying son. And Sam hears the echo of his brothers words, and winces as he realizes his brother is his fucking guardian angel, and that as long as he is near him Dean will put his life on the line to save him, and as soon as he leaves they'll both die inside. _I am my brother's keeper…_

"I love you, Dean," Sam whispers softly, knowing to his brother it is a forbidden phrase, and realizing at last that the squishy inside under Dean's brusque shell is far more vulnerable than any of them ever thought, understanding at last that somehow Dean has been made to feel unworthy of love, and no one has ever told him otherwise. The one-night stands, self-deprecating jokes, Dean's refusal to have anything close to a "chick flick" moment…Sam knew that neither of them had an easy childhood, but is only now realizing how damaged Dean truly is. "I'm sorry," he whispers as well, silently promising that once Dean is better, they'll have that chick flick moment, if Dean has to be tied—_fuck, Dean tied as John_—fuck, if Sam has to sit on him. Sam glances in the rearview mirror to assure himself they're both still alive, when lights flood the Impala.

The semi rolls—rather, barrels—through the stop sign into the side of their car, and somewhere in the back of Sam's panicked mind he recognizes they never had a chance. That thought—as well as any others currently inhabiting the minds of the Winchester boys—vanish as their car is forced sideways fifteen feet and the metal crushes in on them.

The demon—a minion of _the_ demon—that is currently possessing the truck driver opens the truck door and moves to initiate Plan B, but before he gets close he is called off. With a frown of confusion and disappointment at the lost chance to torture and kill, he moves away. The three Winchester boys lay unmoving in the mangled Impala.

_The_ demon moves from out of the shadows, worried about the condition of his boy—boys. He circles the car twice before moving closer, sure that there are no traps or spells to halt his approach. They are alive—Sam with few injuries, John fairly well, considering. Dean—Dean who he, admittedly, was most worried about, is alive as well—but barely, and only because as the truck connected John moved—for once, at last—to protect Dean. The demon reaches into the car and grabs Dean's cell phone, calling the police.

"There's three of us—car crash—some psycho's after us! He kidnapped me; shot my dad…we're on Route 63…God, hurry, I think he's dying!"

"Stay on the line!" They're on their way. He drops the cell into Dean's lap, finding some comfort in the fact that Dean's precious jacket and precious car are destroyed…poor Dean. He examines the car once more, and after putting out the fire before it starts he decides the car can be repaired. He helps it along a bit, and steps back, satisfied. It wouldn't' be the same without them chasing after him in Dean's Impala. He stares at it a moment longer before deciding what the hell—ignoring the irony of said statement—and completely repairing the car except for superficial damage. Can't have them waiting around for their car to be fixed when he has _such_ big plans…He only wishes he could do the same for Dean. He examines the three for the Colt and then swears—loudly—when it's nowhere to be found. Fucking upstart kids with their fucking spell books and trunk locks…

Hearing sirens he vanishes back into the shadows. Another day, then…And with the memory of Dean, he smiles. Not a complete loss…

He flips open the phone in the lawyers body he is currently inhabiting—nice little perks that come with the job—and calls his second-in-command. Gotta keep up with the modern technology.

"Change of plans." He'd needed to get an emotional reaction from Sam in order to force his gift to the next stage. Past experience had led him to believe that betrayal was the only way to accomplish it—although it had also turned out badly, especially with that boy with the abusive parents…his face twists into a wry smile as he thinks of Dean….so he had begun the night with the intention of breaking Sam's fucking little bodyguard. The events of the night, however, would have him believing anything. Dean's impossible loyalty, Sam reacting through loyalty rather than betrayal, and Dean standing by his father after everything… "Change of plans," he repeats, a smile on his lips. "We'll let them regroup and heal. Watch them. Study them. And then…then for the next stage we'll take Dean."

"Dean?" The memory of the boy staring him down, fighting him inch for inch.

"Dean," he repeats. Time to use that courage for his own means. Time to twist that impossible loyalty. "We'll take Dean. Sam will follow."


End file.
